Search

31 October 2016

There's the part where you're expected to get up, WITH NO FOOD OR COFFEE IN YOU, and head to some crowded restaurant, then wait in a lobby for a hundred minutes. Then always--ALWAYS!!--some asshole party of 10 is just before you, because hey, what's more fun than a huge GROUP going to brunch where it's already crowded.

Then you have to wait. For more coffee, for your food, for your check, and in the meantime, some asshole is singing Fire and Rain on his acoustic guitar, which is supposed to relax you and make you forget you've waited 45 minutes JUST FOR ONE CUP OF COFFEE SO FAR, when really that song is about a terrible plane crash, so relaxingness, not accomplished.

But I just figured out yesterday, as I waited 250 minutes for an egg, that another reason I hate going to brunch is how awful people look. It's so obvious they've rolled out of bed and just shuffled on in. Dear People At Brunch: Put on some goddamn pants. "Oh, these yoga pants and m'flipflops will suffice."

NO THEY WON'T.

I'm the only person you know who could come back from the beach even crankier than before. I totally need one of those flipflop stickers for my back window, and maybe a "Beach Girl" license plate. If you ever see me with either one of those, you'll know it's time to put me in the home. My ex-mother-in-law used to say that about if we ever saw her out in a sweatsuit.

You know what my ex-MIL would never do? Wear yoga pants to brunch.

Despite that, I did have fun. It was like the perfect vacation. The weather was divine, and I just said "divine." The little place I stayed was perfect, and mercifully empty till this asshole couple arrived on Saturday and decided blaring their music and opening their back doors right next to me was a marvelous idea. They also made out in their bathing suits on the back porch. Our shared back porch. I went outside and pretended they weren't there and read a book. Like the jerk of an old lady that I am.

One of the songs they were blaring was, I'm sad to tell you, I've Had The Time of My Life. You know, from Dirty Dancing? She had some kind of extended dance remix of it, and who knew there was such a thing. When this jerk of a young chippie wasn't carrying a glass--A GLASS--of mimosa to the beach and making out with her boyfriend, whom she continually called, "Baby," she was jamming out to that song. She was singing along. I was reading my book just to irk her back there, and I was all, "Bitch, I was out here in the world hating this song before you were a zygote."

Anyway, they were only there the last full day, as I said, and they left midafternoon and I didn't hear from them again till Sunday morning, which is what drove me to get eggs in public.

Other than that, it really was the perfect vacation.

Here's my hair on day one.

Later on day one.

Day two, then below, days four and five. On day three, I went to town and had civilized hair. If anyone says, "Beach hair don't care," Ima personally drive to your house and make you wait tables at brunch.

I sat in the giant chair at my rental house and looked at the water and obsessed over the bunnies who could not have hated me more,

I had a dark-chocolate s'more (not a euphemism), and watched sunsets. I was on a point, so I could see water all around me.

I saw three shooting stars on various nights, and oh! I saw a dead jellyfish!

That poor jellyfish. The water was his jam.

I also went to Wilmington, which is right next to the beach I stayed at. Whenever you say you're going to the beach, people here are all, "Oh, what beach?" and then you tell them and I have no idea what they're thinking about you as a result. Do they think that's a tacky beach? That you sound rich cause you picked that beach? I have no idea. So far since I've lived here I've gone to the Outer Banks, and Carolina Beach, and Wrightsville Beach and Virginia Beach and I forget the others and they all look the same to me anyway, water and sand, which also by the way pisses people off. I guess it's like asking what church you go to. It tells a lot about a person.

Anyway, I went to Wilmington for the day, and saw people Halloween-ing, and saw many dogs, and went to a coffee shop and to the book store and bought jewelry I didn't need as opposed to all the people in the world who go without jewelry every single day, and that's the real tragedy we should be addressing in these times.

Maybe this was a funeral procession for that jellyfish. You can't know, really.

In a coffee shop window. There are two types of people in the world: People who love to sit in the window of the coffee shop, and people who never would. Guess which type I am.

Bookstore sitting. I found an '80s Judith Krantz novel I read back when I had a perm, and I didn't buy it but now I wish I had, just to relive the terrible. It was called I'll Take Manhattan. The heroine was rich and beautiful and spirited. It really pisses me off when rich beautiful people think it's daring to be spirited. "Oh, I'm Prince Harry. Look at me rebel! With my bodyguards and my lifelong career as a royal!"

Anyway. You know what my dream is? To own a bookstore and have a bookstore cat. There's just the part where I'd have to know business things like maths and also I hate people. Oooo, I could have a brunch-and-books store.

Anyway, it was a good trip, and now I'm home sharing my toast with Edsel, and with each crust, he leaps in the air after it and a squeak of Eds gas comes along with it, which is probably god's way of telling me that Edsel should not be leaping after my toast crust, and what's sad is god speaks to me in dog gas.

This is the word of the Lord. <squeeeeeak>

Thanks be to God.

Oh, and happy Halloween! Boo! My coworkers are all going dressed as Griff this year, which is hilarious, but I was out of town and unable to fashion an ensemble, so I guess I'll just watch from afar this year.

I'll talk to you tomorrow, when I will have far fewer selfies, a thing that I'm sure makes you sad. Talk to you in November. Today's assignment is that we all must rush out and rent Sweet November. The old version with that namby-pamby pale actress. Then we can all get annoyed at how dying just means you nap a lot.

My dog is following the rules. He's on a leash. If your free-to-be-you-and-me dog runs up to us, your dog is done for. AND THAT WON'T BE MY FAULT.

If Edsel had eaten that bitty German shepherd puppy snickerdoodle I'd have died of sad.

In other news, this is my last day of work this week. Tomorrow I go on my vacation to the beach. It's supposed to be in the 70s and sunny all week, so yay. I really didn't take vacation this year, except to kill my dog and take Ned to his colonoscopy. So.

Oh, and I meant to ask you. What should I do for my 10-year anniversary of blogging? It's December 15, and I thought I should do something more than what I did for the two-year cotton anniversary in 2008.

Nice. Also, while I was Google Imaging "ByeByePie" + "Cotton," I found this...

Did I once give away cupcake floss? Because mmmmmm!

Also, "give away." Did I once promise and never send someone cupcake floss?

Anyway, my 10-year anniversary. Should I have you all over? Should we all go to Hawaii together or something? Do tell me your ideas. A lot has happened in these damn 10 years.

Also too also, I am sick of my hair. I been doing the same damn thing to it for ages.

My hurr, in 2014

My hurr with DW's mom, in 2011

My hurr, 2013. How bad do you want me to stop saying "hurr"?

My friend Jo called last night, ironically, to ask me what she should do with her hair, and one place to go for all your hair advice is my house. June's House O' Hurr. Anyway what she told me is "not a damn thing. Don't change your hair."

Basically Jo doesn't want me to go changin', to try and please her. I've never let her down before.

Oooooo.

What say you? I mean, if I cut it short I'll look like George Washington. If I blow it straight I'll look basic. I can't win.

I gotta go. This whole time I've been trying to write you, a teensy annoying gray paw has been striking me from behind the computer. Is there a 24-hour drive-through put-your-kitten-to-sleep place near here?

I probably won't blog from the beach because I used to be able to email this blog and post that way, but now Typepad claims you can do that but it never actually posts what you emailed. So. I also can no longer reply to comments unless I get on here and comment directly, a thing that always looks good at my desk in the open floor plan.

Talk to you later, when I'll be sure to say hilarious things including "Life's a Beach." Maybe I'll even get one of those "Life's Good" stickers that don't make me want to kill everyone around me or anything. Here's what happens every time I see one of those stickers:

24 October 2016

Iris can't even look at me. See what I did, there? I really need a new back door. The bottom's all rotted off, and have I mentioned how broke? What unexpected car purchase? What two trips to Michigan in one month? What vacation to the beach that I can't really afford? Oy.

I realize you don't feel a bit sorry for me.

Anyway, the weekend. What'd you do? One of you wrote me, I think it was on Pie on the Face, to say you had big hair, and tried to tell your husband you had June Hair, and he was all, "?"

People just don't understand. You know what we all need to stop saying now? "The struggle is real." Let's all stop. Let's also stop saying, "I'll just leave this here" when you post something on Facebook.

Maybe it's not that my hair is big. Maybe it's just cranky.

Anyway, my weekend.

On Saturday I woke up with nary a plan, and I gotta tell you something: I love living alone. I think I even kind of love being single. There is nothing more wonderful than waking up and realizing that, as long as you don't spend much of the $156 you have till Friday, the world is your oyster.

Okay, that sounded depressing. But still. So I had plans to vote, to make America great again, pfft, and get cat food, and once again I promise you I woke up happy even though I'm just a poverty-stricken old maid cat lady. THE POINT IS I got online and realized there was a Pit Bull Awareness Day walk downtown. I got right on the horn with Bitchy Resting Face Alex and we went down there.

BRF Alex has a pitty mix, with a big pitty smile, and he was so good on the walk. Edsel stayed home. I felt guilty, but you know how he'd have been.

WOOF! WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF!

RRRRWOOOF! RRRR! WOOF!

So.

Here's BRF Alex doing her impression of the mom in Cat in the Hat, with big black Harper. Anyway, we walked a three-mile loop downtown, for what reason I don't know, and I was thinking we should have been singin' songs and carryin' signs, mostly say hooray for our side. Stop, now, what's that pit.

We started at ended at this brewery, conveniently, so after everyone went in with their pitties and had a beer. It was really all you could ask for on a blustery fall afternoon.

A warm bar with wood floors and exposed brick, beer, and pitty pit pits everywhere you look, just getting along and being wide-headed.

I admired our tableau of drinks: sparkling rosé, because someone can never blend in, beer, and a water dish for dogs.

I was not at all obsessed with this five-month-old pitty puppy with pawses, whose name was Chunk. They think he's a pit/mastiff mix. "I hate Edsel," I announced to BRF Alex, slugging back my manly sparkling rosé.

Afterward, I walked around downtown, and in your Big Book of June Events, you may recall that Ned used to live downtown, drivin' all the old men crazy, so I spent an hour strolling around half-drunkenly after my one wine, walking to bars and restaurants that Ned and I had been to, and then past his apartment, which was two inches from the railroad tracks. We had a lot of train sex when he lived there, because trains would go by every 14 minutes or something. I was just remembering that when...

Goddammit. I considered hurling myself in front of said train, but did not.

On Sunday, one of the Alexes who doesn't work at work anymore came by for a few hours, and I took zero pictures of her, so you're just gonna have to believe me and not think I'm just a sad old woman making stuff up. I cleaned the damn house, so it'd be tidy while I'm out of town this week, which makes no sense, and then a lot of this happened while I watched the Mary Tyler Moore Show for hours on end:

Also occurring was this:

Not to mention:

Act-shun, I wanna live! Act-shun I got so much to give. I wanna give it, I wanna get some too.

It's been awhile since we enjoyed that video together. Let's do so now.

I want you to know this never gets old for me. Never. Her hair, her fine outfit, hearing someone actually sing, "act-shun," the excited audience, and mostly her fine dance moves.

Whenever you read me, I want you to picture disco balls glimmering at you from now on.

12 October 2016

When people use trite phrases. For example, remember in The Wizard of Oz, when they said, "Lions and tigers and bears--oh, my!" It bugs me when people paraphrase that. Linens and teacups and bags--oh, my! Hail and winds and rain--oh, my!

And this is why I particularly hated myself more than usual when I realized I was out of gel today and said to my own self, "Houston, we have a problem." You've no idea how much I loathed my own self right then, but we really do have a problem, Houston.

I'd turned it upside-down, the gel bottle, and it all ran out onto the sink's surface and dried like There's Something About Mary.

I wish I'd mention more movies today. I get paid thousands of dollars each time I throw one in.

I saw Carrie last night ($$$$!!!!) at my old movie theater I like to go to. I've never seen it in its entirety, and one of the bitchy girls in the movie is actually the woman who was eventually in Ferris Bueller ($$$$$!!!), the principal's assistant who says, "They all say he's a rightous dude."

Anyway, it's a good movie, Carrie is, and the insane mom of Carrie has June Hair. She's also probably younger than me now, which is sad. Everyone's younger than me. My doctor is still older, thank god. But he's, like, half-retired.

Did I mention sad?

Also, I need to work in the phrase "dirty pillows" when referring to women's breasts more often. That's what the mom with June Hair called them. That Carrie mom seemed to have some sort of disorder.

Other than that, yesterday yawned before me with screaming emergencies and then nothing and then another screaming emergency and then nothing again. It's like working in an emergency room, except with words. In between EMERGENCY! NOTHING! I talked to The Poet, and I was telling her that I knew I had to go to the store after work, because I was 100% out of something, and now the end of the day was drawing nigh and I could no longer recall what I was 100% out of.

"Pudding?" she asked.

Pudding. Because once you're out of pudding, you're out of groceries.

It turned out to be Prilosec, which I consume by the gallon, and I should probably really return to the throat guy. He's really tall and long. Wears a lot of turtlenecks. Anyway I never did get any, because I couldn't remember and then I had to scream to Carrie ($$$$!!!!), and now today I will GERD all day. I'll be the hurdy GERDy girl. So.

I wish I could stay and talk about the important issues of our time, but I must be off. We had a yard sale fundraiser thing at work yesterday and I got measuring cups and a bowl and a dish towel, all from my competition, The Pioneer Woman. My own workplace selling the competition.

That clock back there I got for five years of service. It's very heavy, like an Academy Award.

My coworker Slutty Pancakes won the bike. There was a pretty bike, and I wanted it even though I can't ride a bike. "You can put your dog in the basket!" I told her resentfully when she went to retrieve it yesterday. I'd already pictured Edsel in that basket.

"The only dog that'd fit is the cremated one," she told me, and when she got home she texted me this:

10 September 2016

I don't know why I bother. But hello, one and a half people who are homebound for whatever reason.

I guess now that it's half an hour away, I can tell you that I am supposed to be in New York right now, for a friend's surprise 50th, and I'm so sad I'm not there. His wife invited me, and I wanted to bring our mutual friend Sandy to doubly surprise him, but I just couldn't afford boarding Edsel, flying there, staying in a NEW YORK HOTEL HELLO EXPENSIVE, and so on. I tried. It makes me sad. I'd love to see his face when he gets surprised today. It'd probably be the same face he got back in college when he learned everyone didn't have a maid.

So, crap.

Yesterday at work, we got surprised as well, except I knew about it cause I planned it. But an account we work on at work has a dog model, a 176-pound dog model named Moose, and I wrote a story about Moose for said account, and got to know Moose's owner, who is local. He offered to bring Moose to the office, and I knew that would be a big hit, but I had no idea how big of a hit.

Fucking EVERYONE got up to meet Moose. And there's really no way to show, to scale, how dang big that dog is. On his hind legs, he's 5'10". And he's just so docile. It was like Snufalupagus came in to work. "hullo. moowse heer. sigh." He is the very definition of laid back.

I listened to people ask his owner the same questions over and over again. How much does he eat? How old is he, again? Where does he sleep? (Not that much, actually, 7 and a half, and on the bed, natch.)

Oh my god, we all loved us the Moose.

Petite. That's what he was. A mere slip of a thing.

My mere slip of a thing seems to be doing better since his shots took everything out of him. And Iris seems to be more resigned to her little-brother fate, although she's still giving one last hiss before she walks out the door. If she were in a band, she'd paint her face black and white and join Hiss.

If she were a holiday, she'd be Hissmass.

She's thinking of running for off-hiss.

You get my drift.

She puts on a blue conservative hissmass suit and a floppy tie, because she's a hissmass woman.

I need to get over it.

If she drank beer, she'd drink it out of a growler.

Dear June: We hate you. Love, Readers.

When I got home last night, it was an exciting mail day. I got my new phone cover, which makes me officially Single White Female-ing Faithful Reader Beverly. She got one first. Is my point. If she were Iris, she'd say, "Firsssssst."

Don't you just loves it, though? Oh my god, how bad do you want to be me right now?

Don't answer that.

I also got my first Stitch Fix box. It's this place? Where nobody dares to go? You needed the world to know. They are in Xanadu.

Oooo.

Oh my god.

So, at work, I edit the company newsletter, because powerful, and when I was planning September's issue, I emailed the newsletter staff with "September newsletter: Fashion Edition" just to be funny.

See, most fashion and beauty magazines have an extra-thick edition in September, ya lesbian, full of the latest styles and trends and so on. This came in real handy during my coming-up years in Saginaw. "Oooo, I'd better tear this open, read it cover to cover, then head to the mall for more Sasson jeans and Candies."

Anyway, I wrote that as a joke, but then decided it'd be fun to have a fashion edition of the company newsletter, so I went around randomly interviewing and photographing my coworkers. Two very cute women said they got their outfits that day from Stitch Fix.

So, you go on the site, and the first person to not just Google fucking it gets stitches after I visit your abode, and tell them a bit about yourself (Dear Stitch Fix: I am old and fat) and they send you clothes you can keep or return.

Right? I know!

Oh, you're welcome.

I got this pretty gold necklace, and BRF Alex always wears gold necklaces, and she's fashionable, and now I wonder if I should be like her, except old and fat. It's like how my cousin Katie orders things from Athleta and once she puts them on, she's all, "Oh, look at the fat girl in athletic garb."

Anyway. I took pictures, and none of these look flattering in the pictures but they really are cute in real life. As real as this life is, what with my denial that I'm a homosexual man and all.

I love this little top, and I think maybe if I didn't wear it with blue cargo pants and a black bra...

Polka-dotted shirt, also cute if I had anything form-fitting on with it and didn't look like one of those clowns they're finding in the woods.

I like the idea of this dress, but it looks like someone threw up flowers on it.

steelee dan waring his gray sweater again.

That placemat never looks filthy till I photograph it, and then it always looks like I'm feeding animals in a Third World country or something. Note that SD is generally eating all the time. Also, what do you think of canned food for kittens? I hear it's healthier. I've never done it but I keep reading it's preferable.

After I tried on all my ensembles, Ned wanted to go to the goddamn folk festival. "We can walk from my house," said Ned, like that'd be fun.

Last year, we went to the folk festival, had a terrible time, and broke up the next morning. Not because we had a terrible time, but because, well, you know sort of all the reasons we broke up. Anyway, it's exactly a year later and Ned was hoping we could redo it or something.

One way to put me in a sparkling mood was to make me walk in the 90-degree heat to TIBET and back, only so we could stand in a crowd and then walk home again.

But I fucking did it. Oh my god, I was cranky. My feet were scraping in my shoes, even though Ned insisted I wear tennis shoes, and it was hot, and THAT WALK WAS INTERMINABLE. Also, I am a good sport. Is the thing. I go along to get along. That's me.

When we finally got downtown, a hundred and ninety seven years after we took off from Ned's house of torment and bad ideas, we stopped in to see Kit at her store.

"Remember last week, when I was cheerful and drunk?" I asked her. My hair had gotten sweaty and it was 75 feet wide. When I told her we'd walked from Ned's (she lives in Ned's neighborhood), she was appalled for me, and that made everything worthwhile.

"You should get drunk again," she advised.

Ned made me go to THREE FUCKING STAGES to see THREE FUCKING BANDS ("If we weren't already broken up, I'd have broken up with him over this," I groused to Kit.), and at the third stage, we noted that's where we'd been last year when we were having a rotten time. In our 2016 version of Going to the Folk Festival, Ned had found us drinks, and we were sitting on the grass playing "Would You" with all the people walking by. News flash: Ned and I mostly "would" with anyone under 30. Also, I totally "Would You'd" both men AND woman, but Ned stayed steadfastly pervy about women.

"Last year we hated each other, and this year we're picking out people to fuck," mused Ned.

"It's like we're growing," I said, looking for a first aid tent so they could amputate my legs after that walk, kind of like that poor guy in Gone With the Wind.

We noted we were right near the ironically named Goodyear sign, having just had a shit-ass year. Neither of us have met anyone else, and apparently Ned is still trying to kill me for it.

On the equally interminable walk back, we stopped at the neighborhood bar that still counts for Ned as a neighborhood bar, and for me as a "bar from my old neighborhood."

Ned paid. Damn straight he did.

So that's my weekend. Ned wants to walk back to the fucking festival today, and let me tell you who's Hans Solo today. Let me tell you who will never walk alone, except he's walking alone today. Let me tell you who said "folk you" to Ned.

25 July 2016

I am currently drinking coffee--what addiction?--out of my Mr. Tea mug that Marty and Kaye got me some years back, that remains one of my favorites. Do you have favorite mugs? Do you wait till it's that mug's turn in the cupboard, or do you reach for it first if it's clean? I make my mugs wait their turn. Then all the shitty ones are way in the back and I'll have to be all, Crap. Really? It's thin-mug-that-burns-my-hand day?

When we last spoke, I was debating new shoes, because all of mine were peed on or slightly chewed or just old. Lottie really hasn't ruined any shoes yet, as I am careful to at least place them up high, when walking all the way to the closet is just too exhausting to contemplate.

The other day I was walking at work with Austin, and I told him how I woke up in the middle of the night recently with horrific pain in my back teeth. I knew I'd been grinding them and the pain was exquisite. If I owned aspirin, I'd have taken some. What I did instead was get up and put in my night guard.

"You have a night guard? And you didn't have it in already?" asked Austin, who has a full-time job, two kids, a house, a dog, a cat, a wife and does Cross Fit every single day. Plus he prepares 79 individual containers of healthy snacks for himself that he eats all day at work. You walk into the kitchen and he's, like, wolfing raw brussels sprouts out of a container he brought.

"I was too exhausted to walk to the bathroom to put it in that night," I explained.

The look he gave me was priceless.

Anyway, here. Shut up.

Your basic black middle-aged-divorced-woman wedges. I once heard a group of young bitches teasing one of the other young women at the table for wearing wedges like she's a mom. I tucked mine under my chair. I'm not gonna teeter in pumps for no good reason. I put on a pump, there better be the promise of penis.

Every day at work, we take a walk through the park, something The Other Copy Editor invented, daily walks, and we've kept going with it. But my cankles feel stiff in the morning now and I wonder if it's because I'm clomping around the park in divorce wedges. So. Got these. In my color. You'll see they're already soiled, as I walked the curs in them. The Black Mouth cur and the other cur.

And finally. The peace of resistance. How much do you like me right now?

Ta-DAAAAA! I know, right???! Oh my god, so pleased.

I got to wear the basic black wedges to Alex's little party on Saturday. She recently bought a house and she had a get-together.

"Won't you enjoy my...tomatoes?"

All the Alexes were there. Also, microwaved flowers! Mmmmm!

Not an Alex. But standing near an Alex!

June basks in the rays coming from Alex's head.

When I was out...getting my iPhone fixed (which in some parts of the country is code for buying shoes), I stopped at Ulta ("I thought you hated Ulta, June") because my hairdresser is at the beach, and it's only been three or four weeks anyway, and what roots? Oh my god. Snow on the silver mountain. Rootin' for turnips.

Roots.

Root root rootin' for the home team.

If you catch my drift.

So I got some root cover, is what I did, because, roots? Root you talkin' 'bout, Willis?

The point is, they had hair powder for $4.99. They had bright blue, pink, and ...

lavender. So I sported that at the party, and I am not at all just wearing a bra in this picture. "Honey, You're such an exhibitionist." I can so hear my mom. Also, mom, I got your messages. I kept saying I would call you next, in my own head, in my mind, but then I was busy again. Mostly pulling Lottie off things. But also with this...

It all started yesterday morning, on Facebook, because middle-aged divorced woman. Anyway, I'm on two Edsel support group pages: American Dingo and Carolina Dogs. On one of those pages, we were all grousing about our weird dogs, and someone said her dog destroys every toy. And every other Edsel owner nodded sympathetically and we got up from our folding chairs and had a group hug.

That's when I mentioned Blu. To stop the group hug. "West Paw design makes a toy that's nearly indestructible!" I said, adding the link. "We're on Blu number three, and we're only on three because we left Blu Two somewhere."

I did not go into my own heartbreaking history of moving in with Ned and the tragic demise and how I forgot Blu in my fog of disappointment and agony. And that clearly Jesus the lawn guy tossed Blu, as it is just not in that yard any longer.

Jesus will take your Blu away.

The point is, after I posted that on Facebook, I started wondering how many pictures I could drum up of Edsel with Blu, and I started gathering them, then four hours later I'd made a whole stupid video. Do you have any idea how many "blue" songs I considered? Mr. Blue Sky, but it's really long. Tangled Up in Blue. Also a long song. Blue Monday, but come on.

But this song is perfect. It's kind of gay, plus they SAY gay, and it's jaunty like Edsel. Gay and jaunty like Edsel.

Could not get enough of self that Talu gets Blu in the end, and takes a bow. She only ever played with Blu to piss off Edsel. It was totally obvious. She's totally Lucy and poor Eds is Linus with his blanket.

I fucking love the song Blue Monday. Oh my god, I am so dancing at some bar in Saginaw when this comes on. I wonder if all the dancing I did then negated the 394949494 calories from all my white zinfandel? Probably, as I was 23.

Goddammit.

Anyway, that's all my news. I gotta put on my prick suit and get to work. I have no idea why I said that, except Andy Sipowicz used to say that and I always loved it. "Guy put on his prick suit this morning."

01 July 2016

Almost the very minute I pressed "Publish" yesterday on my post, as soon as I'd said to you, "A Charismatic Attractive always forgets your birthday. The Low-Key Reliable never does," I realized my friend Dottie's birthday came and went and I'd NEVER GIVEN IT A THOUGHT.

Not a THOUGHT. Not an "I'm at work, but I gotta remember to call Dot after." Nothing.

For years--DECADES!!--I had a big old pretty wall calendar I hung on the wall, with everyone's birthdays on it. The Purchase of the Wall Calendar was a big thing for me. Remember the year I got the Vintage Better Homes & Gardens calendar and you all had to hear about it constantly?

I even put some of the months into my old coffee table. Look at Iris down there, all, "Eyeriss want to see. Well. See-ish."

The point is, this year I didn't get one. "Oh, it's the digital age," I told myself. "I have a calendar on my phone."

Guess what doesn't work for me? I still want a Hallmark date book and a big pretty wall calendar, one that shows the next month and the previous month. I don't understand calendars that don't. I also like one that shows the phases of the moon, even though all you have to do for that is look up. I'm getting one next year. Writing all the birthdays on it again.

Anyway, I called Dot. She picked up the phone: "Hello?" and I launched into all that. All of the above. She had to sit there and listen to that whole diatribe. Dottie is an LKR. I am a CAwkward-Looking.

"It's okay," she said, because she's low-key. "I appreciate you taking the time to call now," she said.

Dottie is the kind of person who sends you fruit bouquets when you break up with someone. She bought me all the Girl Scout cookie flavors--all of them--this year and last. Sometimes she sees Pop-Tarts, thinks of me, and mails them.

And I forgot her 50th birthday. Clean forgot.

Yeah. Won't you be my friend? It's super-rewarding.

While I was perusing pictures of my old calendar to show you, I found this of me in 1976 at Xmas. Back when I was a stewardess, apparently. And look! A dog! Hunh. That was my grandparents' dog Josh. The Christmas tree was in the dining room that year, for some reason. I'd forgotten the red carpeting. It was 1976. We'd have dyed the dog red, white and blue if we could have.

This photo furthers my mother's cockamamie theory that my hair was normal till I moved out, and now I "do something to it." As if I'd intentionally wish it to be this way. Also, I guess that's my real hair color. Kind of nondescript blondbrownish.

So, what're you all doing for the 4th of July? I'm doing various celebratory things--a concert here, another sort of 4th festival there. I have no real plans to see the fireworks, but they're downtown this year, and that annoys me. Sounds like a nightmare to find parking. Remember when Ned lived right downtown? That was so convenient. I had a little parking pass thing and I could zip right into his lot and walk to whatever event. I think I still have that parking pass, actually. I wonder if I could get away with using it?

Tune in next time for June's Car is Towed.

I also found this picture, of me with Busty Dusty, from a bachelor party in 1991. Those are her breasts, not her knees. Her breasts. We were looking under my CARDIGAN, because hey, sexy, why not wear a cardigan to a strip club?

I was the honorary guy at that particular bachelor party. Also, that is not my natural hair color.

This is not my natural hair texture. Thank all that is holy and merciful.

Also not my natural color.

Why did I keep stampeding for perms?

Anyway, so I guess that's all my news. I am a terrible friend and also I have some plans for the weekend and finally my hair has done a lot of weird things but I don't "do something to it," MOM.

You know, looking at all my hair pictures (which I did by Googling "byebyepie" + "June hair") (Google byebyepie + anything, and a hilarious array of photos show up, mostly of me, which is kind of scary), I realize I've had this same goddamn hairstyle for ages. I mean, shoulder length, curly, whatever. I should change it up. But the only ways to change it are to blow it straight or cut it, and I look like George Washington when I cut it and you know that.

Crap.

I realize this is all very riveting, but I must go. I have to slip into my denim jumpsuit even though I'm not a prisoner, despite all your filthy fantasies about me being one, tie on a jaunty neckerchief and get to work. Today is BRF Alex's last day. Yesterday was Linda the Sexy Receptionist's last day. It's also the last day of this really cool woman on our Spanish team. I remember back when I actually had a cubical, she'd sit in it and talk about boys, and now she's getting married.

Everything's changing. Except my hair.

not LOTee. she deside she stay just this size. no, that NOT a peece of LOTee dog bed back there. wat you meen?

22 June 2016

Last night, I got my formidable roots done, and also, we've hired a very cute woman at work who's adorable, with purple roots and then long-ish lavender hair.

Everyone at work wants to be her all of a sudden.

"Remember I've been saying I wanted to get a color like that?" the Alex who sits next to me said. The one with the new dog, thanks to you guys. She HAS been saying that, and she currently sports the ombré hair, with the blonde at the bottom and darker at the top, and it looks fabulous.

"I just asked HR if it's okay for me to have pink hair," Slutty Pancakes from two floors up emailed me. "They said, 'Sounds cute.'"

Every once in awhile, someone comes in and sparks a revolution.

So, I mentioned to New Dog Alex that I had to leave for my hair appointment, and she said, "Why don't you get rose gold hair?" She's very hip, New Dog Alex is, so I take her every utterance very seriously, because deep, over here. Deep June. There's Gandhi, whose hair never looked good, and then there's June. If you're looking for a depth scale.

"Rose gold hair?" I asked, piqued as piqued could be.

"Oooo!" I said, Google fucking it.

"It'd look good," New Dog Alex said, and have I mentioned I hang on her every fashion word?

"What'dya think of rose gold hair?" I asked my old boss. He paused. "You'd look like an iPhone," he said.

And that is when I commenced ignoring my old boss.

I started imagining myself with the rose gold hair. I could see me gleaming rosily as the morning sun shone on it. I could see me shaking my gold locks, but not breaking them.

"Possibly," she said, and for your information, we are all freezing out BRF Alex. No one play with BRF Alex.

I texted my hairdresser. "Get out the rose gold!" I wrote. My hairdresser is 100% over me. She did not answer.

I screamed home and let Lottie out of puppy jail. Seven weeks ago when I got my formidable roots done, I took her with me, and she was such a teensy thing that she mostly just slept on my lap. And tugged on my hairdresser robe. We should have known then she'd be World's Dickiest Puppy. She's behind me right now, having found an old hoof from the yard that my other dogs haven't played with since 1999. She's a regular archeologist, finding things my regularly scheduled normal dogs have discarded.

It's a sad day when Edsel starts being the "normal dogs."

Anyway, seven weeks ago I took her with me to the hairdresser and she mostly slept, but I knew if I brought her this time it's be like a Pterodactyl had come to the salon, so I got a puppy-sitter. Yes. I know.

The point is, as I was screaming home, I called my mother. My Aunt Kathy and cousin Katie were there, as well. I asked my mother, "If I get rose gold hair, would I look like Bozo?"

"Possibly," said my mother.

"Put Katie on."

"Possibly," said Katie.

I am a lone wolf. A rebel with no need for family. Or friends. Or coworkers. It's just me and the road. And by "the road," I mean the three miles to the salon.

When I got to the hairdresser, she stood up, ready for battle. "I got out the rose gold, June," she said.

"SQUEEEEEEE!!!" I said, ready for pink sunset hair. I would literally be down at the sunset grill every day. I would be June, bringing the roses, like that sheet music one of you sent me.

"I gotta tell you something, though," she said, sitting down. "First of all, I have only one tube, which would not be enough for your hair."

"Also, these fashion colors don't last," she said. "They cost 70 dollars to put on, and they're gone in one or two weeks."

I heard my money manager, Kaye, fainting off in the distance.

"So you don't think I should do it," I said. Oh, I was crestfallen. I was so looking forward to being rosy and goldie. I'd be Goldie Hawn. Like, if she went through a bloated, wide-hair stage.

My hairdresser looked at my crestfallen face. She knows I'm nearly 51, nearly at the end. My life, like my hair, is sunsetting. "I tell you what," she said. "Lemme get some more tubes and I'll do it next time, and I won't charge you the full amount," she said.

AND THAT IS WHY WE HAVE ONLY 7 WEEKS TILL JUNE HAS

ROSE

GOLD

HURR!!!!!!!!!!

{squeeing silently}

"Hey, does your puppy always dog paddle in the water bowl?" the dog-sitter texted me.

21 June 2016

Oh, I was sleeping so NICELY this morning. Lottie did her usual waking at 6:00 thing, which we have down to a science. She whines once, I get up, still asleep, walk her outside, she pees, and without saying a single word to each other we go right back into the bedroom and fall asleep.

But today? I fell asleep for a long, long time after. I was jolted awake by the fact that I felt so rested. "Oh, no," I said, reaching for my phone.

8:37. I'm supposed to be at work at 8:30. It was 8:30fucking7.

"OH, CRAP!" I shouted, getting Lottie out of her jail cell, running to the back door, letting those two hooligans out, dumping food in bowls, letting hooligans back in, showering while they ate, letting them BACK FUCKING OUT while I dressed, and at 8:57, I was ready to leave.

I went to the back yard to see Edsel and Lottie running fast fast fast as they could around the yard, in a big circle, doing that thing where they're both leaning sideways, so fast are they traversing. If I say they were turning to butter, is everyone going to get up in arms that I referenced Little Black Sambo again, a thing I had FORGOTTEN was a ref to that book?

Little Black Sambo. How is it, that in this lifetime, we were able to purchase a book with that title? And think nothing of it! Good gravy.

Anyway. I felt terrible making them come in, but I had to, and they were panting like, you know, a couple of dogs.

"Henh, henh, henh, henh," smiled Lottie as she made her way to the water bowl.

"Huh huh huh huh," breathed Edsel, as he shared the bowl with Lottie. There was no time for alpha wars.

Her little heart was still racing when I dumped her back in her crate, and I felt awful about it, but here I am back at home and she's no worse for the wear. She's back outside, doing Lottie things. She loves a good rock, man. She brings in rocks constantly, and likes to dump them on the floor, scratching it something awful, and stay tuned for a very special episode of Lottie Goes to the Pound coming your way soon.

Like, the more I know her, the more I TOTALLY GET why someone said, "Let's dump her near that gym where all the white people go." They knew some asshole do-gooder would take her in and deal with her punk ass.

Hello, Lottie, two minutes after you were dumped. I am your asshole.

So the point is, I got to work by five after 9:00, and to tell you the truth they're a little loosey goosey about time there, so the whole thing went without incident, other than my cold panic and looking like a homeless person today.

Hey, hurr.

Good god.

I'm eating lunch while I talk to you. I had a can of Franco-American spaghetti, because I too am Franco and American and I like to eat the food of my people. How is spaghetti remotely French? Is James Franco heir to the spaghetti-in-a-can fortune? If so, why does he work so much? What the hell is wrong with him?

Anyway, I had that, and now I'm having some Pecan Nut-Thins and "Classic" hummus. That's what it reads. Classic. Like it's the Chanel of hummus. The little black dress of hummus. My hummus is The Wizard of Oz. Beetoven's Fifth. Of hummus.

Goddammit. Lottie just brought in another rock. I hate this rock obsession. Maybe, like my hummus, she's into classic rock.

Tonight I get my hair done, my roots, as it were, and you can't see them above because I use root spray. But remember that scene in Terms of Endearment when Shirley Maclaine had the roots because Debra Winger was dying? I'm like that underneath this spray. GIVE MY DAUGHTER THE SHOT.

Don't you hate a bitter blueberry? It's so disconcerting.

Okay, I'm glad we had this talk. My mother just called and she's getting her hair done today, too, so it must be genetic. Oh! And in summation, I was able to finish all the episodes of Orange is the New Black last night. Hashtag goals.

What the fuck does Squad Goals mean, and why is everyone saying it? I hate all this meme crap. Whatever, MaryLou; why don't you go work at McDonald's?

Okay, June, out. Should I do something different with my hair tonight? I mean, other than banish the late-for-work-homeless look. Tell all. My hairdresser will adore us. Remember that time I sat down, and with a straight face said, "I'm thinking perm."

June. Cut her hair for the challenge. Stay for the hilarity. And sixty dollars.

11 May 2016

Edsel won't eat breakfast. I mean, he WILL, because I stood over his bowl and made him, but he didn't want to. Is there anything more disconcerting than a dog who won't eat?

Last night I put the kibosh on him sleeping with me, because he's a pain in the ASS to sleep with. You move one simple iota, as opposed to a complex iota, and he HUFFS off the bed, FLUMPS on the floor, sighs, HMMMMMMM and then seven seconds later jumps back on the bed, turns 14 times in a circle and flumps down to sleep.

Then you move again one simple iota. HUFF. FLUMP. SIGH/HMMMMM. JUMP. CircleCircleCircleCircleCircleCircleCircleCircleCircleCircleCircleCircleCircleCircle.Flump.

So he might be having a hunger strike, is what I'm saying.

Last night, on our walk, we ran into Jackie the greyhound who's black, and our gaybors. I mean, she wasn't out there walking herself, with her 11-foot neck. Man, do greyhounds have then a neck on them. She was extremely dignified, and Edsel was DYING to go over and say hello. The gaybors, who officially think I'm weird® and fuck them, pulled Jackie the other direction.

"For Edsel, this is a celebrity sighting!" I said. They laughed nervously.

OH FUCK OFF.

YOU just had a celebrity sighting, Bubs. Don't you know how many people read me? Like, seven! God.

Oh, speaking of which, I got home last night to so many gifts from so many of you, and nice notes, and that was so sweet. I also got really nice emails this weekend, lots of keep-your-pointy-chin-up stuff, and it was very much appreciated, you guys. That was really nice. I mean, I think about what kind of generosity it takes to (a) actually care about the feelings of a blogger you've never met and (2) to take time to write that blogger, find her damn email and so on...it's so kind, is what it is.

I had all my assessments yesterday, when all my assessments seemed so far away, and also so did caffeine, and everything is swell. Well, I have no idea how my health assessment went, except I know my blood pressure, as usual, is nonexistent. My grandmother, the one I'm turning into, had blood pressure that was so low they were actually concerned about it. And yes, MOM, I know your side has low blood pressure, too. But with Grammy they were all, You have to do something about how low it is.

Anyway, there's that, but I have to hear what my cholesterol is, and it's never, ever good. But I've been on Weight Watchers since March, so maybe it's not as awful as usual, my cholesterol. There's less Hardees in them-thar corpuscles.

When my health thing was over, I took one of my bad-for-the-earth pods to the Krups machine, and what kind of future world IS this, and the goddamn thing was in "Add Water" mode. GODDAMMIT. No one has more impatiently added water.

Oh, and after work, I went to the gym. I can walk there. I have to go past Peg's, then past this what I assume is a snake-infested field, then through some corporate-y office parking lots, and boom, I'm there. Seven minutes. Met with a very perfect-bodied girl who asked me about my goals, which is silly. I want to look like Totie Fields and be squishier than ever. She asked if I was doing anything physical now, so I told her about how I don't have sex--no. I told her about Tracy Anderson, and then she gave me a little fitness/flexibility test. Here's how it went.

"Okay, now I'm going to test your [insert thing here]. I need you to [insert activity here]." She'd do it, then I would follow suit.

"Oh, wow! Oh my gosh! Oh, wow! You can really do that! Okay."

Every time. I passed that test like a champ. I guess she thought I was some old bag, like Ruth Buzzy, who was probably two decades younger than I am when she played that old lady on Laugh-In. Three. Three decades.

So I did pull-uppy things with ropes, and squats, and used a machine for my arms, and thrust my generous hips about, and then I saw two men from work, but not two men AT work, and then I walked home through the corporate parking lots and snake field and Peg's house.

Peg has still not taken down her Christmas tree. I've been taking her trash out for her, but I gotta think of a graceful way to be all, Hey, let's get that tree down. She called me last week on Cinco de Mayo to come over for a margarita, but I was already out, but maybe I'll force my way in this weekend for a casual raincheck margarita. What say you?

I gotta go. I have three brainstorms at work, ironic for someone whose brain storms all the time, and then tomorrow I have a three-hour hair appointment, ironic for someone whose hair always looks bad.